


Home

by Mireille



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-16
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:16:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: You can be homesick for all sorts of things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Moving On ficathon (masterlist no longer available), in which you signed up for a pairing, and were assigned a previous partner for one of the characters in your pairing. I signed up for Giles/Xander, and was assigned Wesley.

Looking back, Giles supposed he could say that he didn't know what he'd been thinking, that summer. It would be honest, at least in the colloquial sense: he could neither explain nor justify his behavior, and he couldn't help but regret it. 

In another sense, however, he'd known precisely what he had been thinking. He'd lost his job-- _both_ of his jobs; until Sunnydale High had its own building again, it had no need of a librarian. Buffy had gone to Los Angeles to visit her father, so he didn't even have unofficial Watcher duties to occupy him. And it had been far too long since he had been home; he'd taken to watching public television just for the sound of a familiar accent. 

And then Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had turned up on his doorstep, newly released from hospital and newly fired from the Council, and had confessed that he didn't have any idea what he was going to do next. Giles had let him in, from what he suspected was the same instinct that kept him from kicking puppies, and Wesley had sat down in his armchair, gratefully accepted a cup of tea, and, surprisingly, _not_ said much of anything about the Council. 

That had been a bit of a disappointment; Giles wouldn't have minded having someone to commiserate with. However, if Wesley wanted to be stoic, then so be it. Giles was perfectly willing to talk about other things--demonology, and mystical languages, and how very little the Watchers' Academy had changed from Giles' time to Wesley's--and while Giles still thought that Wesley was an utter pillock, at least they did have certain superficial things in common. Wesley reminded him of home, and at the moment, that was precisely what Giles wanted around. 

They'd moved on from tea to scotch after a few hours, and once he'd had a drink or two, Giles found himself saying more than he should. Wesley had listened to his bitter diatribes against the Council without comment, and then turned the conversation to other subjects; Giles found himself wondering if that was because Wesley truly didn't regret his own dismissal, because he felt guilty about his earlier smugness about Giles' own situation, or because he was afraid that when he started venting his anger about the way the Council had treated him, he would never stop. There had been a voice in the back of his mind, he remembered, that told him he was spending far too much time wondering what was going on in Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's head, but he'd ignored it. 

That same voice spoke up in warning when he realized that Wesley had been watching him with more than casual interest for the past half-hour or so; but he ignored it again, choosing instead to get up and walk toward the staircase, announcing--calmly, but looking Wesley over from head to toe in a manner that even he couldn't possibly misread--that he was going up to bed. 

He wasn't at all surprised when Wesley had appeared at the top of the stairs a few moments later, just after Giles had begun to unbutton his shirt, though he _also_ wouldn't have been surprised if Wesley had bolted when he realized Giles had noticed him; he seemed to be expecting to be sent away. 

Giles didn't send him away, and for what might be the first time since the other man had arrived in Sunnydale, he didn't do whatever he could to get Wesley to stop talking, welcoming the familiar cadences of Wesley's accent in much the same way that he welcomed Wesley's touch. It wasn't anything he was going to treasure forever, but it was what he needed at the moment, and he suspected--though they certainly didn't talk about it, or anything else, before Wesley left in the morning--that Wesley had felt much the same way. 

And really, he thought, there were worse reasons for two people to spend a night together than that they reminded one another of home.

 

***

Giles didn't know where things were going with Xander, or if they were actually going anywhere at all. They'd just _happened_ ; Xander had been spending quite a bit of time at Giles' apartment that autumn--first when Giles had hired him to help shelve books, and then later of his own accord--and they'd gradually become more and more comfortable in one another's company. Comfortable enough, apparently, that Xander had slid over on the couch yesterday afternoon and kissed him.

Giles had kissed back, without even an instant's hesitation, and then Xander slid over so far that he was nearly in Giles' lap, their legs pressed together. Xander's hand was stroking the nape of his neck, his mouth open against Giles'--hot and needy and _whimpering_ \--and he didn't protest when Giles slid his hands under Xander's shirt, finding warm skin under his fingertips. Xander laughed when Giles found a spot where he was ticklish, trying to squirm away, and Giles groaned, because to his surprise, having a laughing Xander Harris kissing him like that, and letting his hand fall so that it rested in Giles' lap, might possibly have been one of the biggest turn-ons of his not-terribly-limited experience. 

They hadn't actually made it to the bed--and Giles couldn't remember the last time _that_ had happened; he generally didn't get that carried away--Xander's jeans and his own trousers abandoned on the floor along with their shoes and underwear, Xander's sock-clad foot stroking along his calf as they rocked against one another, neither of them wanting or needing to take the time to do anything more complicated. Not this time, Giles had caught himself thinking, as he looked up into Xander's eyes, wide and dark and clouded with need, but he hadn't let himself say it. 

They'd both just sprawled on the couch for a while, Xander sprawled with his head pillowed against Giles' chest, until Xander had remembered that he needed to go home and change before going to work. 

That had been when Giles had seriously started to think about what they'd just done--possibly a little too much, but he couldn't actually stop himself. He didn't begin to worry immediately, but once Xander was gone, and he was cleaned up and fully dressed and sitting on the couch alone, he had time to think about the fact that they might possibly have made a big mistake. 

He was still wondering about that this morning. Xander was less than half his age, and he'd certainly never given any previous signs--to Giles, at least--of being anything but completely straight, and while Giles wasn't sure how serious Xander and Anya were, there definitely was Anya to think of, and Giles had no idea how big of a disaster this was going to be. 

He hoped that they could get past this--he couldn't imagine Xander reacting positively to it, once he had the chance to think things over, but perhaps they could simply ignore it. He didn't _want_ this--or rather, he wanted it rather fervently, but not at the cost of Xander's friendship. Xander had become very much a part of his life over the past few months, to the point where Giles had become almost dependent upon having Xander sitting at the other end of his couch while Giles read, and seeing that Xander had started to feel at home here, and just knowing that Xander would be here tomorrow, if not today, and that at least for a while, he wouldn't be alone.

He was still thinking about that when the door opened--without a knock first, of course--and Xander walked in. 

He just looked at Xander for a few very long moments, not sure how to begin this particular conversation, until Xander ducked his head slightly and gave him a shy, but very genuine-looking, smile. "Hey."

Giles could feel the tension in his chest beginning to dissolve, particularly when he smiled back and a look of utter relief crossed Xander's face, followed by a second, more brilliant, smile. 

"So. Uh. I was thinking, about yesterday," Xander said, looking at a spot just past Giles' right ear, "thatmaybewecoulddothatagainsometime?"

"If you like," Giles said, trying not to grin like a complete fool.

"I like. I definitely like. I think I could like it on a kind of I'm-thinking-this-could-be-a-regular-thing-so-please-don't-make-me-look-stupid-here basis."

And there went the last of the tension, as they both smiled at one another like a couple of idiots until Giles crossed the few paces' distance between them and kissed Xander--gently, but with what he hoped was a great deal of promise behind it. 

Xander wanted to do this again. But more importantly than that, Xander was still here. Giles hadn't lost him. 

The autumn, he thought, was proving to be remarkably unlike the summer. He didn't want Xander because he reminded Giles of England. He couldn't possibly; Xander was virtually the living embodiment of everything that made Sunnydale different to England.

But that didn't matter. He wasn't homesick for England any more; that wasn't what he thought of when he tried to visualize "home." It was this, Xander leaning into his embrace slightly, his head resting on Giles' shoulder, and this, Giles thought, might be what he'd been looking for in the first place.


	2. BONUS: Timestamp meme: Five years after the end of "Home"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so bad about this one, but I never envisioned that particular relationship working out. :(

It's a sign things are getting better, Giles thinks, that they make eye contact during meetings. Not for long; he looks away quickly, moving on to the report about the Slayer in Japan who insists that she can serve as her own research department, because looking at Xander for too long tends to leave him unsettled, a knot of something that isn't entirely anger and isn't entirely longing twisting his stomach. He always looks away first, and he wonders if that means Xander doesn't care any more.  
  
It would be reasonable, after the way they parted. Considering the things he'd said once he found out how Willow and the others had brought Buffy back, it would be logical for Xander to have stopped caring. Particularly as he meant them, still means them, even though the past three years have been a gift, thirty-six months more with Buffy in their lives. The ends cannot be permitted to justify the means; that's one of the principles the Council operates under, these days. And then he'd left, and only come back to address crises, and it had been easy to keep Xander at a distance.  
  
But these days, he and Xander do make eye contact, and speak in the corridors; Xander sent him a birthday card this year, and he responded in kind. The wounds were beginning to heal, so that they could be colleagues, if not friends.  
  
And if he recognizes the irony of feeling homesick here in England, when he'd stopped feeling so in California, he keeps that to himself, knowing Xander wouldn't feel the same.


End file.
